


How To Forget Love

by AbsolutelyNotAlex



Category: The Beatles (Band)
Genre: Drinking, Hangover, M/M, Sickfic, but it turns out okay in the end, maybe a little angsty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-29
Updated: 2019-10-31
Packaged: 2021-01-08 07:01:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,537
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21231704
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AbsolutelyNotAlex/pseuds/AbsolutelyNotAlex
Summary: John shows up disheveled on Paul's doorstep late at night, and things ensue.





	1. Chapter 1

It wasn’t a dark, gloomy night. It was cold, but the moon and stars were out with not a cloud in sight. For Liverpool, the weather was actually quite pleasant. But that didn’t mean that everything wasn’t about to go to hell. It was past midnight when there came a knock on Paul’s door. He didn’t answer it at first, but then whoever it was knocked again, louder and more insistent. Annoyed, he stood and opened the door, expecting anything but what he saw. All his annoyance vanished when he saw John, barely able to stay upright and leaning against the doorframe for support. Paul managed to get an arm around him just before he fell. He dragged John into the house and carried him into his bedroom. 

“Alright, you git, what have you done?” He asked. 

John, unable to speak coherently, mumbled some slurred words, and Paul gathered that he’d been drinking. Probably bordering on a dangerous amount, because even when he was wasted, John could still function. Paul started to ask if he was hungry, but then thought better of it when he remembered that John would probably be hurling his innards out soon. Instead, he just turned to leave and sleep in the next room. 

“Paulie,” John slurred. 

He stopped. 

“Can ye stay ‘ere?” 

Paul sighed, walked back over to the bed, and sat down with his back against the headboard. He turned to look at John, and for a second he saw… something on his face. It was more in his eyes, really, and he wasn’t sure what exactly he saw. But it had been something. Realizing that John would need clothes, Paul pulled some out of the dresser and tossed them to him. John just looked at the pile of garments. Paul looked at John. 

After a pause, John said, “Do I look like I can get dressed on my own?”

Of course, Paul was paraphrasing, as John still couldn’t speak comprehensively. Finally, he sighed, and John lifted his arms. Paul pulled his shirt off and helped him out of his pants, then into the new ones. When he tried to help him put the other shirt on, John refused, so Paul gave up and let him sleep shirtless. 

Once they were in bed, Paul refused to let himself sleep. He had to stay awake to make sure John was okay. But John was sleeping peacefully, snoring with his mouth wide open, and soon enough, Paul couldn’t keep himself awake anymore, and his eyelids went out. He woke up a few hours later when John finally moved.

Paul turned on a lamp by the bed, and be the light he could see that John was awfully green in the face. Knowing he wouldn’t be able to walk on his own, Paul put an arm around John’s waist and helped him walk to the loo. Paul sat on the edge of the tub as John sank to his knees in front of the toilet and coughed up the contents of his stomach. When his retching had died down, Paul wet a rag and put the damp cloth on the back of his neck. Another wave came and Paul just rubbed his back and brushed the hair away from his forehead. 

Finally, when there was nothing left in his stomach, John sat back. Paul walked to the kitchen and poured him a glass of water. John accepted it eagerly. 

“Drink it  _ slowly _ .” Said Paul. 

He wondered what had happened that John would drink this much. What he’d been trying to forget. Because that was what it had to be, right? John could hold his alcohol better than anyone Paul knew of, and he’d seen John drink pint after pint without getting so much as a headache. Whatever had made him drink enough that he got sick must have been bad. But because he wasn’t  _ that  _ much of an arsehole, he’d wait until John was feeling better. 

John set the glass down on the counter, and Paul put it in the sink. He would wash it later. 

Wearing just a pair of sweatpants, John was shaking with cold, so Paul led him back to the bedroom and pulled an extra blanket out of the closet while John lay back down. Paul unfolded the blanket and draped it over him. 

“Feel like shite,” John said. His speech had improved slightly, but he was still slurring his words. 

“I know,” Paul said apologetically. “I know.” 

Soon, John drifted off, and when Paul was convinced he wasn’t going to wake up again, he finally allowed himself to sleep. 

When he awoke the next morning, John was awake, but his eyes were tightly shut and he had one arm draped over his face. Paul didn’t need to ask to know he had a splitting headache, so he stood, walked over to the window, and closed the curtains. John just rolled back over onto his side, so Paul pulled on a pair of jeans and walked to the kitchen to make tea. He returned with two cups, one of which he sat on the nightstand for John. 

He looked better than the night before; most of the color had returned to his face, and his eyes weren’t as glassy. It was a pretty wicked hangover, but at that moment the only thing that seemed to be bothering John was the headache. With the amount he had to have drunk, Paul was surprised he didn’t have alcohol poisoning. 

When he was feeling better, they were going to have to have a discussion. 

The rest of the day passed without much worthy of mention. John laid in bed with a headache. Paul washed the teacups and the glass from the night before. When John felt like he could eat, Paul scraped a meal together, and that became the rhythm of the day. Paul would construct some sort of meal, give John a dose of aspirin, and wash the dishes. John would float in and out of consciousness as he pleased, and soon enough the cycle started over. Paul didn’t bother asking John if he wanted him to stay with him again that night, he just crawled under the covers and figured that it was his bed anyhow. 

The next morning, John took the liberty of making himself some black coffee. When Paul walked into the kitchen, clad only in a pair of jeans, he leaned against the counter. 

“Feeling better?” He asked. 

John just raised his cup to his lips and nodded. 

“Good. Because we need to talk.”


	2. Chapter 2

John and Paul sat on the couch, facing each other. Briefly, Paul thought he should have made something to eat, but he pushed the thought to the back of his mind. Breakfast could wait. John first. 

“Look,” Paul started, “I’m not really sure how to have this conversation other than by being direct. I know something was bothering you. You never drink that much, ever. Not when you’re pissed, or upset, or remembering your mum a bit too vividly. You were plastered, Johnny. You couldn’t even stand up right.”

“So? What’s your point?” John asked. The blatant disregard made Paul want to strangle something.

“My point is that something horrible had to have happened, and you can’t just go ignoring it like that. You’ll kill yourself.”

“I wouldn’t expect you to understand.” The statement was harsh, but John’s expression and voice were unreadable. 

“ _ What  _ wouldn’t you expect me to understand? You can’t just say things like that, you have to tell me what the problem is.”

“I don’t have to do  _ shite,  _ McCartney. What the fuck kind of  _ difference  _ does it make if I want to go out and get wasted?  _ It doesn’t fucking matter  _ because you don’t understand, and you’ll  _ never fucking understand. _ ” John’s voice started to crescendo, and by the end he was yelling. 

“Just tell me what your fucking problem is, Lennon!”

“It doesn’t matter because you won’t  _ care. _ ”

“I wouldn’t be asking if I didn’t care! What’s your bloody damage?” 

“ _ My bloody damage is that I’m fucking in love with you, and you can’t see it!”  _ As soon as the words left his mouth, he seemed to deflate. His voice was softer the next time he spoke. “Why is it that some people can’t see the good things standing right in front of them?”

Paul was speechless. All he could muster was a pained expression. John stood. Without asking, Paul knew he was leaving, and he also knew he couldn’t let that happen. 

“You daft git,” he said. “What makes you think that I don’t feel the same? That I don’t care?” 

John stopped in his tracks, and when Paul turned around, he knew there was only one thing he could do. 

“I love you.” He said.

John turned around, walked over to the couch, and sat back down, closer to Paul this time. 

John said nothing, just intertwined Paul’s fingers with his. Paul laid his head on John’s shoulder. They sat in silence for a while, before Paul finally spoke. 

“You know,” he started. “Even though your headache’s pretty much gone, I still think you should stay another night. Just to make sure.” 

That night, they held each other. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Halloween to all. I felt like today was an appropriate day to post this, because it's the end of the month and the end of the story. I know that this chapter was short, but as I've said before, I didn't feel like there was anything left that needed to be said, and I didn't want to ruin what I had by editing and trying to beef it up. I just want to say thank you to all of you for reading my stories when there is so much else you could be doing. As far as any sort of posting schedule, I don't have one, and I don't want to commit to anything in case something happens. Really I've just been posting things as I had ideas, which is probably what I will continue to do. Sorry for the ramble, I'm gonna go eat myself catatonic.


End file.
